Big Scary Things
by S.K. Millz
Summary: Sorry, I suck at stories, but the summary's really good! Promise!
1. Pilot

"What about the ending?" Jeanette, both hands on her coffee. "Can you say mindfuck?"

Simon adjusts his glasses, smirking, "I'd rather not," then he snatches a bite off his frosted butter rum muffin.

"I just keep picturing the judge," sip, "with his parasol made of bones and dead animal flesh," sip, "and the naked fool on a leash," gulp, "wandering frail and wraithlike through the desert…"

"The judge, I think, is my new favorite," air quotes, "Faustian bargain character."

Alvin rolls his eyes, annoyed. Geekiest of the Week material, that's what this conversation is, outclassing even Thursday's debate over creature types in _Magic: The Gathering. _Not that he's listening.

"Miss!" waggling two fingers at the chunky so-called barista bussing tables nearby. "Miss, I'll take another latte, please! Two shots! Cinnamon syrup! Thank youuuuu!"

"_More _coffee?" Simon, bemused. "How many is that?"

Alvin turns out his palms. "I dunno. Three? Four?" Under the table his feet are tapdancing in midair. "Helps me relax."

When his cup arrives he pops the top and, with the back of Jeanette's spoon, immediately begins smashing all the syrup and whipped cream down into the coffee proper, then he gives it a quick yet strangely violent stir, drops the spoon and, floating the cup to his lips, slurps a big wad of foam off the top.

"Something wrong, Alvie?"

"I know what it iiiiisssss," Jeanette slyly removing her glasses. "It's Brittany, innit?"

"_No!" _Of course it is.

"Hot date tonight?"

Alvin bites his teeth together. His pearly whites. "She was, er, noncommittal…"

"Meaning?"

"No specifics," one hand chopping sideways, like an axe into a tree. "Said yes, tonight, but no specifics. S'posed to text me later. After class. Or something."

"Mmkay," Jeanette nodding, simpatico, "that's a start."

"What if she doesn't, though? What if I never hear from her?"

Simon shrugs, then with his thumb and his pinky, wrist jiggling, mimes picking up a phone.

"Are you nuts?" Alvin wide-eyed. "I can't call her!"

"Why not?"

"Because, Simon. Phone calls are creepy. Too much texting is creepy. Facebook comments, especially on pictures: creepy. These are the unwritten rules of courtship."

"Uh, professor?" suddenly cocky, draping an arm around Jeanette's bony shoulders: _Who do you think you're talking to?_

Alvin ignores him. "Girls are like… like wild horses. You don't just walk up and slap a friggin bridle on em. Ya gotta play it cool. Earn their trust. Talk _reeeeeal_ soft and _reeeeeal _sweet." He clicks his tongue, hand poised, pretending to stroke a horse's mane. "Phone call equals desperate and desperate equals creepy. I don't wanna make any big sudden movements," flinging his arms up, "or I'll scare her away."

Simon shakes his head disapprovingly. "A bridle, seriously? No saddle? Who are you and what've you done with my brother?"

_Grrrrr… _"Help me out here, J."

Jeanette looks unsure, eyebrows askew, like she's still deciding whether or not to be offended.

"Just tell me I'm paranoid. Tell me I'm being, uh… _over-anna-lit-tickle?"_

Simon frowns. "What're you worried about?"

"He's worried," Jeanette, as a matter of fact, "that Brittany's leading him on, and that later—i.e. tonight—she'll flip and blow him off. Same way she does every guy."

"She does that?"

"Welllll…" Alvin, head tilted, grinning nervously, "other guys, yeah. Losers. But she wouldn't do that to _moi,_ right?"

"What makes _you_ so special?"

"Zuh?" Alvin slaps one tiny paw to his chest. "We're all special in our own way, brosef. Me, I'm smar—uh…" (Simon eyeing him suspiciously) "I'm funny? Sometimes? I'm good-looking… y'know, like, when I take the time to…" (Simon still waiting) "Look, side issue! Point is, she obviously likes _something _about me or she wouldn't've said yes."

"Eh…" Jeanette staring wearily at her coffee. At the little clump of sugar that's surfaced in her coffee. "Not necessarily…"

Alvin groans.

Fueling his anxieties, that's what they're doing. His brain, which labored all week retconning Brittany's weird shoegaze reaction to the question "Ya wanna, like, hang out Saturday night?" now double-retconning, backtracking, replaying the entire scene in super-slow motion. When she said yes, did she hesitate? And for how long? Did she touch her face? Is that a tell? Was he supposed to pick up on that? Would Simon have picked up on that? Why don't they teach this crap in school?

"Okay, Alvin," Simon, elbows on table, interrupting his train of thought, "what do you wanna hear?" Engage sarcasm: "Not only are you brilliant, you're hilarious, and when it comes to girls," _mwah,_ blowing a kiss, "you're simply irresistible. A regular Don Juan. Brittany, she'd have to be crazy or stupid or gay—or some combination thereof—to snub a hotdog like you."

"Good take," Alvin, equally sarcastic. "Now one more time," clap, "with feeling."

Before Simon can oblige, Jeanette elbows him in the ribs. "What your brother's trying to say, Alvin, is that you'd make a great catch for any girl, Brittany included. If she doesn't text you, that's her fault. Could be she's just nervous."

"_Nervous?" _Alvin blurts out. "It's a date, not a proposal!"

"I knooow, I knooow," speaking now to the ceiling, "but women, we're always thinking long-term. Always thinking two, three months down the road."

"Which means?"

"She's a freshman, duh. Probably worried about getting tied down."

Tied down?

Alvin doesn't know what to do or think or say about that one. Just another thing to deliberate. Another thing floating around in the ether of things to deliberate.

"Well, Romeo," Simon interjecting, "love to split another cup with you," indicating his nonexistent watch, "but Jeanette and I are late for think tank, sooooo…" He shoulders his backpack.

"What?" Jeanette, confused. "We're not late."

"I mean, we could be. If we don't hurry."

Sighs all around.

Simon shimmies out of his chair and hops down to the floor, then very daintily raises one hand as if to assist Jeanette in that same maneuver. But Jeanette's still staring at Alvin, a sort of regret in the purse of her lips, like she wishes she could say more, nothing good coming to mind.

"Uh, Jen?"

"You'll do fine, Alvin," she says suddenly. "Date or no date, when you wake up tomorrow morning, you'll still be the same chipmunk you always were."

"Scary thought," Simon, snickering.

Alvin pops his eyebrows, "Thanks, I guess," and he tries to smile at her, but it's a weak, stupid-looking smile.

Secretly he's thinking: _Please, please, just shut the fuck up._

* * *

Later he's sitting in the registrar's office wondering how, exactly, he wound up sitting in the registrar's office. So antsy and unmotivated today… after coffee he should've just gone home—back to his and Theodore's dinky townhouse apartment—where for the next several hours he could've melted coolly into the couch, mostly undressed, practicing Akuma combos in _AE_ or clicking intermittently between Spike and Discovery while nursing a bag of Jay's Hot Stuff.

But he made it to the registrar's office (somehow) like he'd been planning to do (sort of) since registration closed last week, and now a tall, stiff-looking guy with gray hair and unusually symmetrical face, purple dress shirt and matching tie stands frowningly over him, looking already irritated, as if to him student correspondence is akin to jury duty… or having your teeth pulled… or being told you've developed rectal cancer.

"Alvin? Daryl." Handshake's way too big and squeezy, not safe for little chipmunk paws. "Got a problem with your registration?"

"Uh, yeah…" Alvin wrings his newly cramped wrist. "I got, like, bumped out of COM 200," withdrawing a sheath of paper from the front pocket of his hoodie, "and, like, the way my major is, if I don't take it this semester—"

"C'mon, let's," Daryl cuts him off, beckoning curtly toward his office.

Kinda rude.

People forget: for someone Alvin's size, getting in and out of chairs requires actual effort. Requires jumping and climbing and balancing on things. Doesn't help that the guest chair in Daryl's office is an old, slightly crooked swivel that keeps spinning away from the desk every time he gets settled.

"So…" Daryl, oblivious, fingers on keyboard, "COM 200, you said?"

Alvin's still trying to steady his chair, riding it like a surfboard, hips jerking back and forth. "Y-yeah," he stammers, "Intro to Media Psychology? I… I signed up for it, but I didn't get it."

_Clickety-clack. _"Looks like it's closed. All four this semester, full up."

"I know. That's what I said."

"I'll add you to the waitlist." _Clackety-clackety-clack._

"Well, but," again reaching for those papers, "the way my major is…" It's a wordy pink printout titled _Communications: Core Requirements, _and stapled to it is a list in roadmap form detailing each class, its purpose and all corresponding prerequisites. "Everything runs through COM 200, see? If I don't take it this semester I'll be, like, way behind."

"And…?" Daryl scratches his head, eyebrows bunched in the middle of his face, as if swallowed by some invisible vortex. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Wait, what?"

"I said," heavily, "what do you want me to do about it?"

"I mean—" Aren't these administrator types supposed to be helpful? Or, like, at least falsely sympathetic?

"According to my records," _clack-clack, _"you declared during the second semester of your freshman year. Were you unaware then of even the most basic requirements of your chosen course of study?"

"No, I—"

"What can I do for you, Alvin?" He knits his fingers, leaning smugly back in his chair. "I already know the answer, but just for fun I'd like to hear you say it."

Alvin blinks. "C-can we, like, start over?"

Daryl doesn't laugh. He probably never really laughs. "You want me to punch your ticket, right? Doesn't matter who's in line ahead of you, doesn't matter how long they've been waiting, you want me to sit here and," pretending to type, but with the sort of nimbleness reserved for puppeteers, "sign you up, like magic, correct?"

Alvin remains stupefied.

"Let me explain something to you," pointing now, scoldingly. "Life isn't fair. Sometimes we don't get what we want, even when we deserve it. You're no more exceptional than anyone else on that list; what gives you the right to cut in line? Because you're you? Because your parents, your teachers, your childhood playmates, everyone who had a hand in raising you, they all made believe you were special? That the world would one day bend according to your whims?" He shakes his head. With pity he shakes his head. "You're not special, Alvin. You're a twenty-year-old communications major with no job, no money and very little hope of acquiring either. What do you want to be when you graduate? A deejay? A talk show host? A film critic? Do you even know? Have you even thought about it?"

Alvin's sweatshirt has two drawstrings, and like a cat with a ball of yarn he's now hopelessly playing with them, knotting both around one finger, then flexing his finger until the knot unfurls and starting over, starting over, starting over.

"Lazy is too plain a word," Daryl explains. "It's immaturity. A profound misunderstanding of how the world works and who it works for. How do you expect to survive in the real world when you can't even plan out a four year degree?"

"I, er…" Alvin swallows. "So, like, I'm guessing that's a no?"

Suddenly he's back in the waiting room, hands shoved in his pockets. Left his papers behind, but who cares. If Daryl said anything in the interim, he hadn't noticed. Hadn't registered.

Two girls sit texting by the door, and they both sort of politely glance up from their phones as he enters. The one closest to the door, he clears his throat to get her attention. Very delicately clears his throat.

"Uh, 'scuse me," mumbling, "could you, like…" He nods at the door, whose handle, like most handles, is well beyond his reach.

"Oh, sure," she says, and her friend goes: _"Awwwww…"_

Not-so-secretly he's thinking: _Please, please, just shut the fuck up._

* * *

"Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh!"

Theodore's home—upstairs on his laptop, Doritos everywhere, re-watching old episodes of _The Venture Bros., _which to him is a substitute for normal weekend activity—and every few seconds a string of squeaky rapid-fire giggles rings out all over the apartment, perfectly spaced and perfectly, consistently loud, as if part of some weird mechanism.

It's fucking annoying.

Alvin stands barefoot on the kitchen counter, coffee pot slowly replenishing, and on the couch in the other room his phone's recharging, waiting for Brittany's post-class text. Her theoretical text, which already has a sense of lateness to it.

But we won't speak of such things.

Before he can fill his cup an alarm goes off. One of those low, reverberant, Soviet-style alarms. He knows immediately what it is and that it's got nothing to do with Brittany, but his heart still blows up when he hears it.

Explanation: Last night he forgot to kill his alarm and, in scrambling half-asleep to kill it this morning, he accidentally switched the clock from AM to PM, then promptly rolled over and forgot about it again. Nice and easy.

Now it's seven at night and the alarm's going off and as he stabs wildly at his phone, which is not much smaller than him, with his thumb and his index finger, he realizes quite sourly that it's getting late and his chances of ever convening with Brittany slimming by the minute.

"Heh-heh-heh… heh-heh-heh…" Theo thumping down the stairs, green teeshirt and basketball shorts, same clothes he woke up in. "Oh, uh, hey Alvin," freezing when he sees him. "S-sorry, I didn't hear the door." That bad habit of apologizing for nothing. Preemptively apologizing for nothing.

Theodore, it's worth noting, suffers from a rare birth defect called _agenesis of the corpus callosum,_ which means the two hemispheres of his brain don't connect and, as Alvin understands it, that's at least partially responsible for his being… well… fat, socially awkward and uncoordinated.

"Thought you'd be out for a while," he says, "with Brit. Er, I-I mean Brittany. Sorry."

Alvin sinks miserably into the couch, coffee cup between spread legs. "Yeah, you'd think so."

"She call it off?"

Alvin shakes his head. "She didn't call. Like, at all."

"Sh-shit, bro…" Whenever Theo swears it always sounds so forced, like he's trying shyly to pronounce some unknown foreign word. "Didn't she say she'd—"

"Text me? Yeah. After class."

Theo cocks his head to one side. "C-class on Saturday? That's funny…"

_Wah-wah…_

"It _is _fucking Saturday, isn't it?"

Hits him like a sucker punch. That same stupid feeling you get when you push the pull door and crash awkwardly into the glass, or when you trip over your own feet while walking normally, the realization that everyone's silently snickering at you (even those unseen), and you think: _If I just don't look… If I play it off just right…_

He sips his coffee and, for a moment, holds it in his mouth, washing it around like Listerine.

Theo clambers up onto the couch next to him. Takes a couple tries, but eventually he gets it.

"Y-you okay, Alvin?"

Anything but okay. More like sick. Shoulders tight, and for some reason he can't stop clenching his stomach. Then he spits his coffee back into his cup, _sploosh, _and he murmurs: "She's not gonna call, is she?"

Theo looks worried. "I mean, uh, she might?"

"Yeah, sure."

Kinda late to be making dinner plans, Alvin thinks. And with zero contact all day…

But she said _yes,_ goddamn it. When he asked her out, she said yes. That's gotta mean _something,_ right? A hint? A window slightly cracked? Mild interest?

_Not necessarily,_ according to Jeanette. That whole "flighty, free-spirited freshman" thing. Brittany, she's way out there, enjoying her independence, doesn't want to get tied down. Much easier to say nothing than to say no. Much less scary.

"What do you think she's doing?"

"Right now?" Theo hesitates, as if it's a personal question. "I-I don't know. What do girls do on the weekend?"

"They don't fucking go to class, that's for sure."

"S-sorry. I thought you—"

"Jesus, Theo…" Alvin sucks a deep breath and lets it out through his teeth. He can feel his cheeks getting hot, his heart throttling his ribs, and it's not even the coffee.

Or is it?

He knows where she lives too. Cook Hall, room 301. Her and her sister Eleanor. The newest, plushest dorms on campus. Suite formation: two rooms linked by shower and bathroom. Long, quiet, air-conditioned corridors, everyone with their doors shut.

Maybe he'd find her there, or at least some clue as to where she really was. The shadow/echo of whatever stupid, fleeting, annoyingly impulsive, dime-a-dozen activity she'd chosen to replace him with. _Cold Stone date with the girls? Channing Tatum Netflix marathon? In the mirror snapping visibly staged profile pictures and selfies? Aimlessly browsing Pinterest for exotic brownie recipes?_

"Maybe she's, uh, g-got lots of homework or something?" Theo stammers, as if that's somehow better.

But Alvin's already daydreaming, already way past the point of rationalization.

Imagine what would happen if he _did_ just show up at her door. Imagine the twisted look on her face, the redness, the foot-shuffling, the excuses, the "Oh, I, er, well…"

Imagine all the wonderful guilt-stirring possibilities: _"Hey Brit, I think something's wrong with your phone, I never got your text," _like he's some fragile, woefully naïve little boy, hanging on her every word, the cruel temptress.

"A-Alvin?" Theo waving a hand in front of his face. "What's going on in there?"

Big smile. First one all day. "How's about a field trip, little bro?"

"A f-field trip?"

"So to speak." He sits sharply forward, as if only now tapping into that reservoir of coffee. "Since neither of us knows, apparently, what girls do on the weekend, let's go find out!"

Theo looks scared. "C-c'mon, Alvin. It's only seven. G-give her some time…" and he goes on rambling. Something about feelings and patience and restraint, about how Dad once likened Alvin's personality to a rollercoaster, a continuous loop of highest highs and lowest lows (which is accurate), but coming from Theo it sounds more like stupid, impotent whining.

"Please, please, just shut the fuck up."

"S-sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Alvin at the door tying his shoes. "Just get over here." Between laces he grabs hold of Theo's shoes and, one by one, chucks them like shot-puts into the living room, _thunk thunk. _"I'll need a witness."

Theo peers nervously over the seat of the couch. "I-I don't get it. What's your plan?"

It's not a plan, it's a compulsion, a calling. Class-action retribution for every guy who's ever been stood up, blown off, led on or otherwise emasculated by a pretty girl…

"Seriously, Theo, do I _ever_ fucking have a plan?"

… but he won't bother his brother with that interpretation.


	2. Boys Talking About Girls

Alvin can feel his heart banging away inside his sweatshirt, behind the big gold A stitched into his sweatshirt. There's a spring in his step and he's smiling tautly and Theo, who's not smiling, is tottering along behind him, shoes scuffing concrete. Sun's going down and it's a little chilly and they're headed up the cracked sidewalk toward campus. From 13th Street they'll veer left onto College Avenue, then they'll take a right on 10th Street and follow the road past Voorhees all the way to Cook Hall.

"S-slow down, Alvin!" Theo gasping for air. "M-my legs, they're not as long as yours!" Like he's been running sprints.

Alvin slams on the brakes, landing mid-step with both feet square.

"Wh-what's the (choke) rush anyway?"

"What rush?" Alvin bouncing up and down on his toes. "There's no rush. Who's rushing?"

Theo stops to grab his thighs, then he takes a hit off his inhaler, making a sour face afterward, as if someone replaced his medicine with Skittles. "Wh-what're we gonna do? Pull a (cough) prank on her?"

"No, no pranks," palms up. "I just wanna talk."

"Talk? About what?"

"About _us,_ duh. Me and her." Alvin makes a sort of give/take gesture, one hand sliding forward, the other dropping back, inverse repeat.

"She's not gonna like that."

"It's a learning experience," Alvin explains. "When we were in high school, I used to take this crap so seriously. So personally. Used to blame _myself_ every time something went wrong. Took me ages to figure out what was really going on."

"I-I don't get it."

Alvin cocks an eyebrow. "The truth, Theo, is that _they're_ just as clueless as we are."

"Who? G-girls?"

"Girls, women, the fairer sex," nodding impatiently. "Guys like us—er, well…" (Should he really include Theo in that demographic?) "Guys like _me,_ we're so afraid of being rejected, so in awe of the feminine mystique," (key term on next week's study guide) "that when things don't work out, when we don't get what we want, naturally we assume it's somehow _our_ fault."

Theo with a blank stare.

"We come on too strong, we're nervous, we don't know what to say," Alvin counting off fingers. "But it's not that simple. Even the sweetest, prettiest, most charming girl you've ever—uh, I mean," biting his tongue, "the, uh… the hottest chick with the biggest bazooms," _good save,_ "even she's basically lost when it comes to communication."

"Wh-why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Theo!" clapping and rubbing both hands together. "There's no class you can take, no book you can read, no video tutorial… It's all trial and error!" Adding, after a beat: "C'mon, bro, you're a dude. Must be _someone _you've got your eye on…"

Theo hesitates, mouth open, then he shoves his inhaler in it, _krsssch! _"We'll, uh… we'll p-probably see her tonight," he mumbles.

"Wait—Ellie?"

"Y-yeah," solemnly. "I'm, uh… I'm crazy about her."

Alvin lets his eyes wander. Hard to picture that couple. Theo with his goofy laugh and his secret dance aerobics routine, his sweatpants, pit-stained teeshirts, Teva sandals and brain age of thirteen, Eleanor with her pierced Monroe… and her pierced lower lip, nose, ears and (probably) pierced nipples, her black eyeshadow, "Weed Life" backpack and matching wristband, her huge gut, huge tits and huge hair, and how she ends every sentence with "and that," like nothing's worth fully explaining.

"Sh-should I talk to her? Tell her how I feel?"

"What? No! Nuh-unh!" Alvin mimes slashing his own throat. "Fuck no! Don't even think about it! Feelings, Theo, are strictly off-limits!"

"B-but you said—"

"Feelings are scary. Unpredictable. Creepy. No one likes feelings."

"B-but I—"

"Just follow my lead, bro," patting him on the back. "When I'm through with Brit, that's your chance. That's your opening. That's when you cut loose and take the lead, capisce?"

"Wh-what does that mean?"

"Y'know, spit game. Make your move. Walk the walk."

"N-no, I mean what's capisce mean?"

Suddenly they're standing outside Cook Hall, Alvin tapping on the glass of the door. There's an R.A. on duty, but she's counting sheep in the security office.

_Chik-chik-chik-chik!_

Tapping jolts her awake, and she frantically swats at the lever on the desk in front of her. With a loud _thunk_ the door unlatches, but Alvin's not strong enough to pull it. Not even tall enough to reach the handle.

"Hit the wheelchair thingy!" arms above head, like he's signaling for a rescue chopper.

Another _thunk, _then the door cranks slowly outward and together with Theo he scampers inside.

They take the stairs, getting off on the top floor, the third floor. Compared to Phelps (Alvin's old dorm) Cook is a ghost town. Doors closed, windows closed, music down. No communal bathroom, no midnight hacky sack playoffs, no creaky, eavesdroppable sex-ins, no folk-singing, guitar-strumming hipsters stinking up the study lounge. More like a hospital ward than a college dorm, but that's okay.

Theo's lagging way behind, and by the time he catches up, panting like a Saint Bernard, Alvin's already in position outside Brittany's room, ear cupped and pressed flatly to the door.

"Anyone home?"

"I dunno," knocking three times with the heel of his hand. "Guess we'll find out."

_Whump-whump-whump._

Inside he can hear whispering, contentious whispering, keys jingling, then what sounds like a large piece of furniture—perhaps a desk or a dresser—sliding shakily across the floor. Seconds later the door jerks open and a kid with slimy black hair and poorly-trimmed goatee peers out, eyebrows squirming, looking at once confused and desperately suspicious.

"Down here!" Alvin chirps.

"Oh shi—" The kid jumps, startled. Then he snorts and slaps one tattooed hand to his mouth. "Yo, Ellie," glancing back over his equally-tattooed shoulder, "I think yer friggin family's here!"

Door opens all the way, and as the kid steps aside Alvin gets a big skunky whiff of marijuana. From where he's standing he can see Eleanor—Theo's dream girl—seated fatly on the windowsill opposite, plugging a long translucent tube with her thumb, and the tube's connected to a little black cylinder which, in turn, is plugged into the wall.

She squints at him. "Nah, that's just my sister's friends."

"Hi Eleanor!" Theo waves at her, then he ducks behind Alvin's tail.

"Y'all can come in," slightly upping the pitch of her voice. "Just take yer shoes off or whatever and that…"

Room's a weird mix of pink and black, and Alvin's standing on a bright pink welcome mat that could only belong to Brittany. "No Boys Aloud," it says, surrounded by a circle of juicy red hearts, some whole, others snapped jaggedly in half, and Alvin has to admit it's a cute little welcome mat. Annoying, but cute.

Once they're both inside, the kid shuts the door and stacks Ellie's dresser in front of it like a barricade, and Ellie says to him: "Jeff, this is Alvin and his little brother Timothy."

"'Sup, dudes."

"_Theodore,"_ Alvin corrects her, "Alvin and _Theodore,"_ and he grabs Theo by the wrist, whipping him out front the same way one might reveal a bouquet of roses.

"'Sup, dudes," again.

"Um!" Ellie, abruptly. "If yer lookin for Brit, she ain't here."

"Figures."

"Hrmph, yeah," not entirely disappointed. "It's sorority night or whatever and that."

"Where? At the Sib house?"

"Psssh!" shrugging violently. "Yer the ones lookin for her, not me." Then she sticks the tube in her mouth and sucks on it like a milkshake, and when she's finished she breathes a thin white vapor out through her nostrils, most of which is immediately swallowed up by the open window behind her. "Big doings tonight, or'd she already blow ya off?"

Alvin freezes up, and for Ellie that's as good as confirmation.

"Really? Heh-_hnnnnnh!"_ She sounds like a chicken when she laughs. An evil, slightly deformed chicken. "What'd ya come _here_ for? Tryna track her down or whatever and that? Tryna catch her in the act?"

Somehow just being in the same room with this bitch makes Alvin feel tiny.

He glances over at Theo, but Theo's not looking, he's staring dreamily up at the object of his desires, lips parted, hands folded neatly at his waist, that obnoxious cackle like music (apparently) to his ears.

"Dude, that's jacked up," offers Jeff, whose presence is still a mystery. "I'd be piiiiissed…"

"He is pissed," Ellie, referring to Alvin. "Can'tcha hear it in his voice, the wounded pride or whatever and that?"

"I just wanna talk."

"Yeah?" eyes half-lidded. "Whatcha gonna say? She ain't exactly starvin for guyfriends and that. What makes _you_ so special?"

"I mean," Alvin massaging the back of his head, "there's not a whole lotta chipmunks on campus…"

Ellie glares at him like he's an idiot and suddenly, as if the intimation had been transmitted telepathically to him, he feels like an idiot.

"Fuckin bitches, right?" Jeff out of nowhere. "Only time they ain't got somethin comin outta their mouth is when they got somethin goin in it."

Alvin's not sure what he means by that, or what it has to do with anything, but at this point it doesn't matter. As eagerly as he'd wanted to infiltrate this room, he now wants to leave just as badly. Forget Theo.

"Well, uh, we should probably, like, head out," he stammers, backpedalling toward the door and the dresser blocking the door. "I'll catch up with Brit later. Sorry to interrupt your…" glancing from Ellie to Jeff and back again, "your whatever."

"Hey, wait!" Theo hisses, gripping Alvin's arm. "M-my turn, capisce?"

Alvin eyes him disbelievingly, like are-you-fucking-serious, never mind those earlier words of encouragement. _She's gonna eat you alive, _he thinks.

"Eleanor?" Theo steps boldly forward, and Alvin can't look. "I-I'm not really sure how to say this, b-but I…" his voice trembling, Ellie's dark, thinly-lined eyes boring suspiciously into him, "b-but I…"

He can't say it—whatever it is—and he's starting to hyperventilate, just like before. _Don't take out your inhaler, Theo. For Christ's sake, don't take out your inhaler._

But he's already taking out his inhaler and shaking it up and stuffing the spout in his mouth.

"S-sorry, I'm a little nervous," he mumbles afterward, like it isn't glaringly obvious. "I-I guess what I'm trying to say is—"

_Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrzzzzzhhhhh!_

Everyone flinches. Everyone except Alvin.

It's the fire alarm, blaring suddenly all over, and for a moment Alvin wonders if he triggered it with his mind.

Whether or not it's a drill, that's beside the point.

Ellie and Jeff each pronounce curse words, then they hastily dismantle the vaporizer and cram it into Jeff's backpack weed and all, and they stuff the backpack under Ellie's bed. Theo, who's covering his ears, eyes huge and darting, staggers to the side as Jeff once more dislodges the dresser from the door and, as soon as the door's open, Theo hurries outside together with the other two, leaving Alvin stranded alone in a room that isn't his, rooted still to Brittany's girly pink welcome mat, his left foot covering the word "No," thinking.

_Hrmmm…_

The desk closest to the door is Brittany's. He can tell simply by the lack of schoolbooks (not that his own desk is any different) and the prominent, museum-like display she's constructed for her precious Blu-ray copy of _The Notebook._

Laptop's open, and although the screen's gone dark Alvin can't help but wonder if she's still logged in somewhere.

He climbs aboard, hopping from a low drawer to the seat of the chair to the empty keyboard mount to the surface of the desk itself, and with one finger he swipes the touchpad built into the base of the laptop. Slowly the screen wakes up, revealing a huge, low-res, slightly skewed picture of Brittany, Eleanor and Jeanette at senior prom, them all making duck lips at the camera, a forest of bare and tuxedoed legs in blur behind them. Alvin remembers that night.

Minimized to the desktop is Google Chrome, and using his entire palm Alvin slowly negotiates the mouse down toward the icon and clicks.

Twitter. Shit.

He didn't know Brittany had a Twitter. Never even bothered to check, not having one himself. Briefly he imagines what a chore it must be to type into this thing, imagines Brittany literally dancing and twirling ballerina-like on the keyboard. Then he starts reading.

Two days ago: _Can I get an amen for horoscopes?_

Twenty-one hours ago: _Did (a)jeaniemeanie really just ask Subway if they have alcohol? #toomuch_

Nineteen hours ago: _Every time you see someone you've had a class with… drink._

Four hours ago: _(a)__b_millz is ready. #sibtime #realslimshady_

And there's a picture there of her flashing an upside-down peace sign, middle finger ringed, covering one eye like something out of a music video, and behind her Alvin can see the very same closet that's now behind him.

And that smirk…

"Fuckin bitches," he whispers into the fire alarm. "Right?"


End file.
